


and twist!

by rensshi



Category: WayV (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Feelings Realization, M/M, Spin the Bottle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rensshi/pseuds/rensshi
Summary: If anyone asked Yangyang about his first kiss, he can only think of two things:1) The peck from a playmate when he was like, six in the sandbox before she stole his Lego car, so it totally counted. 2) When he’s twenty and catapulted himself halfway across the globe to SM Entertainment, and a real kiss happens with an audience of five. He only has himself, and maybe Ten as well, to blame for it.
Relationships: Liu Yang Yang/Qian Kun
Comments: 16
Kudos: 146





	and twist!

**Author's Note:**

> let me just say that i do have other fic ideas of aus for other ships with arguably a little more plot than what i’ve been putting out lately. but there is a waging battle inside me and it was either work on this 'fun' small kunyang wip to destress OR start seriously writing an au and well look where we are now. if there are any mistakes then i edited this w/o sleeping.
> 
> this is largely based on that wayv anniversary live where yangyang said it was kun who helped him the most during his trainee days, and that he's deeply grateful for it.

  
  


If anyone asked Yangyang about his first kiss, he can only think of two things:

1) The peck from a playmate when he was like, six in the sandbox before she stole his Lego car, so it _totally_ counted. 2) When he’s twenty, catapulted himself halfway across the globe to SM Entertainment, and a real kiss happens with an audience of five. He only has himself, and maybe Ten as well, to blame for it.

“You aren’t supposed to enable me,” Yangyang complains to Ten. His near-empty bottle of soju slips—Ten deftly snatches it from his grip—and his line of sight goes back to the shiny Cola bottle pointing towards Kun after he’d spun it. 

Kun’s been reddening slowly before but he’s properly blushing now. He looks like he might just die. Any more alcohol and he’s gonna pass out.

“Are you taking that shot?” Ten asks Kun anyway, just to make sure.

“I’ll take it for you,” Lucas volunteers, leaning forward, large hands already snaking towards the shot glass in front of Hendery across the circle with all the grace of a large bear thrashing through a river on the floor of their dorm.

“That’s really not what you should start taking for the team,” Hendery comments at the same time Kun says “No, I’m not taking the shot. Xuxi, get up.” Kun’s face is grim. He smacks Lucas out of the way, and crawls forward.

“Seriously?” Yangyang blurts out. Xiaojun already has his eyes covered with his hands despite there being a gap between his fingers to peek through. “Well, then make it good, Kun ge,” Yangyang says. He doesn’t know _why_ he says it; he doesn’t know what to expect. 

Kun’s hands stutter halfway in movement when he puts them on Yangyang’s shoulders but otherwise shifts himself closer, and Yangyang wants to laugh.

“Your move,” Kun offers, gripping him by the collar.

“ _My_ move? Ge, you could just, I dunno, take the shot,” Yangyang challenges but Kun takes a deep breath, still holding Yangyang by the shoulders. He most definitely is not taking that shot.

“Any day now,” Ten calls behind them and that’s all it takes for Yangyang to move a fraction of an inch forward.

For one, it’s disgustingly wet, too firm, he can feel the press of Kun’s teeth, too eager behind his lips. But Kun’s lips are incredibly soft, his hands that had an iron grip on Yangyang’s shoulders have gone to gently cradling his neck and jaw. Yangyang’s ears feel like they’re submerged during the whole duration of it when Kun angles his head and his mouth just falls open so Kun can use his tongue. He doesn’t realise he’s let out a pathetic sound into it. Some feet away, Hendery and Xiaojun have probably stopped having an aneurysm with the silence and Sicheng utters, “Guys? _Guys?_ ”

When they pull away, Ten has a hand hovering over Kun’s shoulder like he’d signaled them to stop. Yangyang wipes his mouth, head reeling and prepared to laugh it off. He thinks he should. 

It’s unbearably quiet until Lucas groans with his head in his hands and Hendery stage whispers, “Kun ge, I think you broke him,” looking at Yangyang with his eyes shining. Yangyang thinks he tells Hendery to shut up. 

He thinks he says the words.

His mind is blanked out, his body might be on literal fire and all he can see is how red Kun’s mouth is, lips still parted until it twists into a grimace when Sicheng starts slow clapping.

  
  
  
  
  


“I’m going out. Grocery run,” Xiaojun tells Yangyang after he’s somewhat awake the next morning. “You want anything? Never mind,” Xiaojun adds after he doesn’t get an answer. 

“What the fuck time is it?” Yangyang grumbles, trying to feel around for his phone.

“11 AM, sleeping beauty,” Xiaojun says, stumbling around and pulling on a new pair of sweats. “Kun says if you don’t get up before lunch, you’re doing the dishes tonight because he wanted to clean our room today.”

Yangyang rolls over, sighing into the pillow after Xiaojun leaves the room. They have lunch at 3 PM in between practice, so he can afford the sleep. He has about another hour before he should get up to go to the company building. The dorm is suspiciously silent, save for Xiaojun sliding into his sneakers, the squeak of his soles faint from the front door.

“The guys went ahead for practice,” Xiaojun yells from there. “Don’t be too late!” And then he’s gone and Yangyang is left to sleep in just a little more.

Except he can’t; his mind is starting to drift, thoughts becoming more conscious the more he rolls around in bed, eyes closed, and the next thing he knows he’s focusing on the little things; noises like the traffic of Seoul drifting upwards through the open crack in the window, the sound of a distant plane going by somewhere. The hum of the air cooler whirring humbly in the corner of their room, a bell tinkling somewhere that’s probably the cats playing with their toys. 

He can breathe in the scent from the pillows and sheets too when he had them changed yesterday after Kun nagged, and he’s grateful. It smells good. Maybe not as good as Kun and his ten varying bottles of Jo Malone but good enough that Yangyang _should_ be able to doze off again peacefully. He really wants to. He knows that if he doesn’t, he’s going to walk into practice cranky as fuck and the idea of practice is looking less and less appealing the more restless his mind gets. Kun is going to frown at him later on, Ten might tag team him in nagging and ask if he ate something decent after all the soju last night. He just rolls onto his stomach, groans when his dick presses into the mattress, half-hard. He presses his hips against the surface because he’s alone. Being alone is now a wonderful rare occurrence his morning erection wants him to take advantage of. 

He shoves a hand in between the bed and his crotch to palm his cock over his shorts. There are the series of images in his mind that usually gets him going, and he exhales sharply, squeezes himself through the thin fabric. His imagination goes from the insanely attractive, hot women who never smile his way twice working in the company building, the ones he’ll never muster up the courage to make small talk with for long, to where his dick throbs now, fully hard from the image of a mouth around it. He thinks about how shiny Kun’s lips had been, how his eyes had been so dark. Kind of dazed like he gets when he’s tired out of his mind and yanking off his shirt at the end of the day, or waking up in the early morning, cheeks rosy, voice hoarse and gentle.

He shouldn't even be thinking about it but Yangyang grinds himself against his palm anyway. Maybe, Yangyang thinks, Kun had been turned on too. He envisions how Kun might look after an orgasm, a nice heavy flush up his neck with his mouth spit-slicked after being kissed stupid. If Kun were kissing him under any other circumstance, maybe it’d be better—slower, languid. Yangyang guesses he'd be that kind. The kind to make sure to take care of the other person. Or he’d be a little demanding too, tell Yangyang to be good about it and let Kun lead.

Fuck it. Yangyang thinks of Kun’s hand in place of his own, a muffled sound he doesn't recognise as his own hitched into the pillow, his face hot. He finally shoves his hand into his shorts.

  
  
  


A year after debut, Yangyang fills a page with song lyrics and subsequently forgets about it. 

Later on, before their second comeback and first full album, it’s a brand new notebook, the pages worn and slightly crumpled down to the last few sheets from incessant flipping. “It’s not ready,” Yangyang says when Kun angles his head over Yangyang’s shoulder to read his writing better. 

Kun just gives him a look, hand curled over the back of Yangyang’s neck. The skin there prickles, enticingly warm when the A/C is on full blast. “Does it matter?” 

There are just some things they feel they’re never ready for until they dive into it headfirst.

Yangyang isn’t so sure about that, but you fake it till you make it, is what he learns from his seniors that one time he ran into a couple of them. He, Jaemin and Renjun had been sitting at the company cafeteria, Park Chanyeol’s arm around his shoulder giving them somewhat unsolicited advice. _Including song lyrics_ , Chanyeol had said. No one has to be widely experienced to be able to write about first love syndromes, rhyming fruit metaphors, and heavy petting.

Yangyang writes the phrase about first love Chanyeol had used in Korean and it bears no weight, substance he just can’t grasp until he anecdotes the meaning in English and then Chinese. He’s still in a writer’s block even after _baby Yangyang’s first kiss,_ as Ten proclaimed.

“Why does this sound like something Kun ge would write?” Hendery asks, eyeing the page. 

“Oh my God, no way,” Yangyang groans. That’s no good. He’s spent way too long agonising over trying to be original.

Hendery gives him a strange thoughtful look. “Are you sure you don’t want to ask Kun for help?”

“I have! He’s kind of blocked himself,” Yangyang says, ripping a Snickers bar from their fridge open with his teeth after. The last time they’d gone over his progress, Sicheng had been trying to sleep on the couch. Got up and trudged back to his room with the complaint that _there are too many feelings in the room taking up the space_ , and ducked out of the way when Kun threw a dog toy at him.

“It doesn’t even have to be profound. I’ve given up on profound,” Hendery tells him.

Yangyang laughs drily and says, “You never tried,” and Hendery just shrugs.

  
  
  
  
  


“Don’t speak,” Kun whines on the floor of the practice room, his face turned away from Yangyang and reflected in the mirrors, petulant, like a 5-year-old’s nap time interrupted so rudely. “As of this moment, I’m learning how to meditate.”

“You hate meditating.”

“I’m sloping up the learning curve. Ask Winwin to buy you food. Or Hendery.” Kun is already rolling away when Yangyang tries to nudge him with his sneaker.

“But I already owe him a ton. I’m buying,” Yangyang says, and Kun lifts himself into a sitting position like a puppet on strings, looking alive.

“You’re being weird,” Kun notes, looking him over.

“No I’m not,” Yangyang counters, glancing at his own reflection, the touch of a frown there. If he looks too long at Kun, he might see it as a trick of the light of the practice room falling over the gentle curve of Kun’s nose, the planes softened out to his cheekbones. That maybe he’s also thinking _what if_. 

“You are,” Kun says, smiling suddenly, eyes softening. “Well come on, let’s go. I’m starved all of a sudden.”

  
  
  
  
  


He’d seen Kun’s camera roll on his phone before debut, the cheesy lyrics he’d written for all his old songs. Long distance straight out of a high school girlfriend was obviously out of the question, and he kind of figured Kun was an old romantic at things with just enough rose-coloured experience to make him still preach that first makeout sessions should mean something, or some shit like that. 

“This is terrible,” Kun had stated after the spin the bottle game in the darkness of their room, his eyes far away and looking through Yangyang now rather than at him. They were both sobering up then, mortification sinking in fast. “Firsts are supposed to _mean_ something,” Kun choked out, clearly high-strung. “Well, did it suck?” he finally asked, sniffing.

“Not really?" Yangyang answered, unsure and staring at Kun when Kun smashes his face into his own pillow.

“Okay. Well, good,” Kun said, stiffly and stretched out all the cracks in his body while Yangyang winced at the sound. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Maybe there’s a sense to doing things backwards—like how kissing your bandmate unearthed some deep-seated feelings locked away ever since Yangyang has been getting to know the streets surrounding the company building. Ever since he’d had to memorise the exits that took him the quickest route to the convenience store for a snack during his training. Kun had helped him out once; or rather Yangyang had convinced Kun to sneak out with him, and triumphantly gotten his ramyeon and kimbap for free that day, and then for many days after when Yangyang learned how to push just enough and pull away to earn him a light cuff on the ear, and a small bunny-toothed smile from Kun. Some days before debut, Yangyang would look for that smile, even though he didn’t really know it then.

If Yangyang could channel all that into lyrics, maybe he’d exorcise all of these feelings like a ghost he’d been possessed by. This ghost makes him feel guilty and wonder if he’s left the cubicle clean when he looks Kun right in the eye after a needed jack off session in the shower and for Christ’s sake, he never really used to be guilty—selfishly long shower times every now and then and pretending he never heard the quiet furious rustle of fabric and telltale sigh after (he swears he’s heard Kun jacking himself off, like _once_ ) in a dorm shared between seven guys never needed explanation. Neither does last-minute, late-night laundry, most of the time.

“I underestimated how much of my clothes weren’t actually my own,” Yangyang says easily in their tiny laundry space when Kun steps in and stares at Yangyang, carrying a small bundle of clothes in a laundry bag. It’s almost three in the morning.

“‘Kay,” Kun says wearily, but Yangyang catches the tiny smile he’s had to fight as if to say _sure thing._

“You just got them changed,” Yangyang points out, nodding at the bundle of sheets, and shorts that Kun throws in the hamper, offhand.

“Look—I just like them clean and fresh,” Kun reasons, not looking at him as he says it and Yangyang can see the dark blush in Kun’s cheeks and ears now. He almost trips over Yangyang’s foot by accident in the small space. Yangyang jumps at the static when Kun grabs at his wrist for balance, gathered by how he’s been sliding around in socks all day.

For a moment, they’re just standing there, their backs against the wall, watching the circular rotation of their clothes and sheets tumble in the washing machine like they’re hypnotised. Because Yangyang can’t bring himself to leave right there even though his heart horribly thuds against his ribs and he inhales when Kun nudges him suddenly.

“You’re doing well,” Kun says, for seemingly no reason at all.

“What?”

“At everything. Just thought you might want to hear it. I mean, remember when you didn’t even know how to do laundry when you came here?”

Yangyang fights down a snort of disbelief. It’s bait—after all, it had been Kun who taught him to work a washing machine and what not to throw in and ultimately ruin and shrink. 

“You should teach me other things, Kun ge,” Yangyang starts, already prepared to laugh off what he’s been thinking of for weeks.

“Like?”

Yangyang balls his hands into fists tucked beneath his crossed arms. It helps him fight the urge to run. He takes a deep breath.

  
  


Kun was the first person to see his first attempt at lyrics, and when he listens to Yangyang spewing what he thinks is nonsense to explain what he’s trying to say, Yangyang had felt better about it all. It gets easier to pick up his pen and write. After all, Kun is the nicest person anyone ever meets, until you snack in front of him during practice, or forget to turn off the lights of the room he's sleeping in; the usual growing living pains. 

It turns out, Yangyang had been a fast learner— at the cohabitation part, at his lessons, the whole idol conduct and the works. It just took him longer to learn that Kun is just as bad at coming to terms with some things like he is, when Yangyang took the leap and asked him if he had a chance. “A chance at a second time? Is this your idea of a confession?” Kun had asked, laughing nervously, until he can't laugh anymore. Yangyang had been staring at the spot of green on his light grey shirt that day, the blotch from his fresh hair dye that day after the tone reached midnight blue (he latches onto the word _blue_ for lyrics, and predictably, the words just keep coming after until he finally gets something approved by the production staff).

If anyone asked him about his first kiss, then it would be this: when he was six and was planted a peck from someone who stole his Lego car in the sandbox.

Or this: when Yangyang sees warm midnight blue, like the ocean deep behind his closed eyelids, even through the dark red of the light above the fire escape before sunshine greets them through an exit after practice, when Kun finally allows himself to brush his mouth against Yangyang’s, no games, no audience, and lets Yangyang kiss him back like he means it.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/fractalkiss)


End file.
